


For Succor, for Freedom

by pr0nz69



Category: Octopath Traveler (Video Game)
Genre: Bromance, Dark Past, First Meetings, Friendship, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Injury Recovery, Spoilers, Trust Issues
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-04
Updated: 2019-07-04
Packaged: 2020-06-09 13:05:45
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,254
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19476517
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/pr0nz69/pseuds/pr0nz69
Summary: Alfyn, disillusioned with his profession after the incident in Saintsbridge, comes across an injured man with a very distinct marker on his wrist. It wouldn't be right to leave him to die, but he won't be deceived again...—An alternate first encounter between Alfyn and Therion.





	For Succor, for Freedom

**Author's Note:**

> I can't believe I forgot to upload this! This is my second piece for the bromance zine, featuring the delightful Alfyn and Therion! I'm pretty pleased with how this one came out. I want to write more Octopath fics! Alfyn is such a joy to write! <3

It’s raining hard out in the Clifflands, and Alfyn’s feeling right sorry for himself, so caught up in his own head that he almost doesn’t see the man crumpled under a thin overhang of rock jutting from the bluff above them, clothes darked by water and blood. That’s what snaps him out of it right then, all that blood, and he dashes to the man’s side, not at all feeling like being an apothecary after what’s happened in Saintsbridge but unable by his profession and his conscience to leave a man in such a state as that.

 _Unless that man is a criminal,_ retorts a voice in his head that sounds very much like Ogen’s. He shushes it halfheartedly.

The man is young, Alfyn discovers on gently turning him onto his back, probably around his own age, which makes it all the more discomfiting seeing such wounds on him. Someone—or, more likely, multiple someones—has gone and carved him up like a celebratory goose and left him here to bleed out. No—lifting a limp hand and looking closer, Alfyn realizes the man may have escaped his attackers on his own; his palm is scuffed and cut something fierce, and his fingernails are broken and caked with dirt. He must’ve crawled or dragged himself along till he couldn’t go any further before collapsing here. The downpour’s gone and turned everything to mud, and any footprints or drag marks are long washed out. Alfyn reckons it doesn’t really matter how he got here now.

“I’ll getcha fixed up right as rain—just as soon as we get _outta_ the rain,” he mutters, maneuvering the man’s arm around his shoulder. He makes to slip his hand around the man’s waist to support him but pauses when his fingers graze cool metal. He frowns, tracing the shape of a thick band around the man’s right wrist. A bracelet? Something dangles down from it, something that feels an awful lot like—

On instinct, he jerks the man around, holding him at arm’s length against the side of the cliff. His heart sinks in his breast. A chain. A shackle. The man’s got himself the mark of a convict—a fool’s bangle.

 _No_ , Alfyn thinks, _not again. You ain’t gonna fool me twice._

His arms shake but not with the effort of holding the man up—lissome as a cat, he isn’t terribly heavy. He thinks about Ogen, about those who are worthy of being saved and those who aren’t. It’s all so fresh in his head, the betrayal, the kidnapping, and yet to make such a decision himself here, _now_...

Is this man’s life worth saving?

Alfyn gazes at him, at the wounds—clearly defensive—on his hands and arms and the blood soaking through his mantle at the breast. Whatever got him like that—well, it sure doesn’t look like he initiated it.

There isn’t time to deliberate. Left alone, the man _will_ die. And where’s the justice in that?

Alfyn hoists the man back over his shoulder. He must be the biggest of fools, but he just can’t leave him here to die. Mama would give him a mighty tongue-lashing just for thinking it if she were still here, and Zeph would be none too pleased, either. It’s not the apothecary’s way to leave a man to suffer.

But he’ll smarten up this time. Just as soon as the man’s well again, he’ll hand him off to the city guard. They can determine what should be done with him.

With that shaky plan in mind, he makes for Bolderfall.

\--

The man is littered with scars.

Alfyn can see that now he has him undressed and washed up, lying still and pale on a musty pallet under flickering candlelight. The white lines chase each other down his breast, crisscrossing and bisecting until they’re interrupted by the fleshy chasms of new wounds slashed all the way to his stomach. Alfyn tries not to think too much about the cause of them all as he spreads his salve over them.

“That should do ‘er,” he sighs at last, leaning back and rolling the stiffness out of his shoulders. He tosses a blood-soaked rag into the bucket of red water beside him, wipes his hands on a towel, and reaches for his roll of bandages. “Now to just cover ‘em up.”

The tavern with the cheapest rooms is in the seedier part of the sprawling city of Bolderfall. Even so, Alfyn got more than a few strange looks when he stepped in with an unconscious man slung over his shoulder.

“I’m an apothecary,” he loudly clarified to the barkeep and any concerned eavesdroppers. “This fella’s my patient, so I’d ‘preciate it if you could let us a room.”

In the end, the leaves he slid across the counter won out over any suspicions the barkeep might’ve harbored, and with an almost blasé remark that Alfyn “try not to bloody the linens, if ye can help it,” he handed over the key to one of the most dismal rooms this side of Orsterra. With two low beds, a table set with cheap clay dishes, an ashy hearth, and an old washtub, it serves his purpose well enough, but its single small window, peeling wall paint, and general uncleanliness leave much to be desired in the way of comfort.

When Alfyn finishes bandaging the man, he tugs one of his own nightshirts over him and covers him with the quilts from both beds. A chill grips the room, and now that the man is out of immediate danger of blood loss, Alfyn takes the time to sweep the ashes from the hearth and light a fire. That done, he brings the bucket outside and tosses the bloody water, replenishing it at the well. It takes a few trips to fully fill the tub, and then he tosses the man’s clothes in to let them soak. He reckons it won’t take all of the blood out or even most of it, but at least the man will have something of his own to put on once he wakes.

He’s about to turn away when something glints beneath the surface, catching his eye. He leans in closer, frowning at the small, round object drifting along the base of the tub. He reaches his hand in and scoops it out.

It’s a gemstone, red like a ruby but much more refined than any ruby he’s ever seen (not that he’s seen all that many back in Clearbrook). A strange, unnerving power seems to pulse through it. He sets it aside on the table, eyes flashing warily back to the man.

_Where would a fella like him get ahold of something like this?_

He isn’t sure he wants to know

Pawing through his satchel, he draws out a bundle of cord used for splinting wounds in the field. Feeling somewhat guilty about its intended purpose this time, he nevertheless approaches the man, turning him onto his side. He secures the end of the cord to the bedframe, leaving a comfortable amount of slack, then threads it several times through the link in the shackle, ensuring it’s good and tight before winding it around the man’s other wrist. He’s loath to harm a patient, especially one in such a way as this, but after Miguel, he’s not leaving anything up to chance. Just as soon as he’s sure the man’s well enough to go without his care, he’ll summon the Bolderfall guard and be done with the whole affair.

He falls asleep in his chair at the man’s bedside even though he tries not to, remembering the last time he dozed off before a criminal. He wakes some time later to the sound of the bed creaking and opens his eyes to see a bright green one glaring back at him. He nearly falls out of his seat.

“Who are you?” the man asks, his voice weak yet edged with cold venom. He squirms, tries to sit up only to flinch and collapse before making it so much as an inch off the pallet. Alfyn watches in trepidation as the muscles in the man’s shoulders contort, working to free his hands, to no avail. He gives up after a few moments, exhaling softly.

“Just get it over with,” he says in frustrated resignation. “Darius sent you, didn’t he? I’d rather die here than see _his_ face again.”

“N-now hold on!” Alfyn says, throwing up his hands in a gesture of peace. “I don’t know who this Darius fella is, but he ain’t got nothing to do with me. Name’s Alfyn,” he adds by way of introduction, “traveling apothecary, at your service. Happened to find you collapsed outside Bolderfall in that sorry state, so I brought you to this here inn and fixed you up.”

The man narrows his visible eye; the other is curtained by hair. “Really,” he says, his disbelief almost tangible. “Then why the hells am I tied up? Or is that how you normally treat your ‘patients’?”

Alfyn stands and moves to the table, pouring water from the jug there into a chipped clay cup without taking his eyes off the man. “Most of my patients ain’t criminals,” he says neutrally.

The man at least has the discretion to look humbled at that. “Right,” he says tonelessly. “Then what, exactly, do you plan on doing with me?”

“I don’t know,” Alfyn admits.

“ _Great_.”

Alfyn brings the cup to him. “Here,” he says, holding it to his lips. “Drink.”

The man turns his head away. Alfyn clucks his tongue.

“Come on, now. You gotta get some fluids into you.”

“ _Let me go._ ”

“Maybe I will once I can trust you, but first, you can start by telling me your name. And, y’know, about how you got that band strapped to your arm.”

The man’s expression hardens. “Therion. And it’s none of your business.”

Alfyn sighs, setting the water down. “Look, Therion, I don’t mean nothin’ by it. It’s just, I had a bad run with a man who swore up and down he’d go on leading an honest life after I saved him. ’Course, first thing the bastard did was make off with a village child—near killed him, too. So I had to...”

His voice quivers, and he tries to mask it with a cough that’s not entirely convincing. He can still feel the warm blood on his hands and the twist in his gut at the realization that _he_ did this, _he_ broke his vow of “first, do no harm.”

Therion considers him for several moments.

“You don’t need to worry about that with me,” he says at last. “Just untie me, and I’ll be on my merry way.”

But Alfyn shakes his head again. “Sorry, but no can do. That’s what Miguel said, too. I... I can’t trust the word of a criminal.”

Therion sets his jaw. “You said we’re in Bolderfall? Then bring me to Ravus Manor.”

That isn’t the response Alfyn is expecting. “Ravus... what, now?”

“Are you stupid?” Therion shoots him a condescending look. “The Ravuses are the wealthiest family in the Clifflands. Probably beyond them, too. Their manor sits on the highest hill in the city.”

Alfyn rubs the back of his neck. “Well, shucks, I didn’t know that,” he says, a little defensively. “I ain’t from this region.”

“Doesn’t matter,” Therion says in exasperation. “Look, just bring me there, alright? I’m currently in the... _employ_ of Cordelia Ravus, the lady of the house. She and her butler will vouch for me.”

“Employ?” Alfyn shakes his head. “Look, I may be a country boy, but I ain’t no fool—”

“Then suit yourself,” Therion cuts him off. “But I can tell you that Lady Ravus _won’t_ be happy when she learns you’ve collared her pet thief.”

Alfyn frowns. “A thief, huh?” Same as Miguel—or so he’d said.

“That’s right. No point in hiding it when you’ve already seen this godsdamned band on my arm,” Therion adds in a huff.

Alfyn glances at the shackle. “But what’s a rich noble lady want with a thief? ‘Specially one that’s been caught before.”

“ _That_ is a matter between said lady and myself. Now will you just take me to her? I have something that belongs to her, and if I don’t get it back—” Therion stops himself there, a look of panic crossing his face, and it’s the first honest emotion Alfyn’s seen in him.

“M-my clothes!” he gasps, struggling on the bed, only barely managing to sit up this time. He stares in horror at the overlarge nightshirt Alfyn put him in. “What did you do with my clothes?”

“Relax,” Alfyn says, and gestures to the washtub. “You were soaked to the bone and covered in blood, so I had to get you out of ‘em. Don’t think I’ll be able to get all the bloodstains out, but you can change once they’re dry.”

“Not that, moron!” Therion snaps. “The stone! The dragonstone! Where is it?”

“You mean this thing?” Alfyn retreats to the table again, holding up the glinting red orb between his thumb and forefinger.

Therion visibly relaxes. “Hand it over. Otherwise, _you’ll_ be the thief here.”

“I don’t need no pretty stones,” Alfyn says with a shrug, setting the object back onto the table. “And I don’t take things that don’t belong to me. Whose is this?”

Therion sets his jaw. “It belongs to Cordelia Ravus,” he says after a pause.

“That so?” Alfyn hesitates. “Then I suppose we should return it to her.”

Therion perks up. “So you _will_ take me there, huh?”

“Well… Reckon I gotta if you really are working for a noble lady. ’Course, if you’re lying to me, I’ll hand you right over to the city guard. Deal?”

Therion nods slowly. “Yeah. Now untie me and let’s go.”

“Now hold on!” Alfyn cries. “You ain’t going anywhere till you’re healed up.”

Therion’s face sours. “I’m leaving _now_.” He swings his legs off the side of the bed but makes it no further, cringing in pain as he folds over his stomach.

Alfyn puts his hands firmly on his shoulders, feeling with some alarm the sharp jut of his bones through his skin. “Hey, hey, now! What’d I just get through telling you, huh? You got cut up real good. You ain’t in any fit state to be walking around just yet, hear?”

Therion grimaces but seems to realize Alfyn’s right and quietly pulls his legs back onto the bed, folding them gingerly to the side. “If _that’s_ your diagnosis, then untie me. I clearly can’t go anywhere.”

“Nuh-uh,” Alfyn responds with a shake of his head. “I gotta sleep, too, and I can’t have you sneaking up on me and cutting my throat so you can rob me blind.”

“I’m a _thief_ , not some second-rate highwayman. If I wanted to rob you, I could do it in minutes and with you none the wiser.”

For some reason, that makes Alfyn laugh. “Well then, that’s why I gotta keep you tied up. Ain’t nothing personal.”

Therion glares but makes no comment.

“Best thing for you now is to rest up and recover your strength.” Alfyn offers the cup again. “C’mon, have some water.”

Again, Therion turns away, and Alfyn sighs. “Guess I’ll just get dinner going, then.”

He sets to stewing up some herbs and the last of the stock and dried vegetables from his satchel. Therion watches him, and though he tries to hide it, Alfyn can see the clawing hunger behind his eyes. When he takes the pot off the fire, he splits the stew into two bowls and carries one over.

“Here,” he says, dipping a spoon into the bowl and lightly blowing on it. “You gotta eat something.”

Therion turns up his nose.

“Aww, c’mon. You ain’t gonna get better unless you take care of yourself. Now open up.”

“I’m not going to be hand-fed by you.”

Alfyn resists the urge to roll his eyes. Why does he have to be so damn stubborn?

“Alright,” he says at length. “I’m gonna untie _one_ hand so you can feed yourself. But don’t you think about trying anything tricky, you hear?”

Therion doesn’t respond, which Alfyn, perhaps naively, takes as acceptance of the terms. He sets the bowl down on the bed and works at the knots around Therion’s left wrist—the one without the shackle—until the cord comes loose. Therion jerks his hand free the instant he feels the tension ease, then snatches the spoon from Alfyn’s hand and stabs it into the bowl.

“Whoa, there—don’t spill, now!”

Alfyn sits back with his own bowl, relaxing more than he knows he should in the presence of a cornered thief. He can’t help it—he _wants_ to trust Therion. He wants to trust everyone, to see the best in folks even if they can’t see it in themselves. Thieves can’t _all_ be like Miguel—that’s what he wants to believe. And as much as it hurts, having your trust betrayed, the allure of human kindness isn’t something he’s ever been able—or willing—to resist.

“Good?” Alfyn asks with a warm smile when Therion finishes. It’s hard, trying not to get too close. Therion is scornful as ever, casting the bowl aside without even a glance in Alfyn’s direction, but there’s a certain softness to him now, something settled, almost unguarded, in his eyes.

Of course, it only lasts a moment as Alfyn takes up the discarded cord and grabs his wrist. Therion wrestles with him briefly, but Alfyn’s size and sheer physical strength win out in the end, and he binds Therion’s wrists behind his back again.

“Sorry,” he says, truly meaning it.

Therion casts him an icy look and, without a word, turns over on the bed so that his back is to him. His hands, now limp in their restraints, rest against the curve of his spine, pale, bruised fingers curling inward. Alfyn swallows, guilt chewing at his gut.

“Get some sleep,” he murmurs, rearranging the quilts over Therion in motherly fashion. “Just… holler if you need something... alright? I’ll hear you.”

He receives no response and tries not to let that put him out. Crawling under the one thin blanket left on his bed and snuffing out the candle, he hesitantly says, “What is it that got you so good, anyway?”

“It’s none of your business,” Therion snaps.

Alfyn frowns in the semi-darkness. Therion sure is prickly. Maybe that’s normal for a thief, keeping his affairs to himself so he doesn’t get hurt. Maybe Miguel was only as forthcoming as he was because he was a conman who knew a sucker when he saw one. Alfyn feels his cheeks burn.

“Well, you sure are lucky you got away from ‘em when you did,” he says, forcing his mind away from Saintsbridge. “From the looks of those wounds, they weren’t playin’ around. Someone wanted you dead.”

Therion is quiet. Alfyn remembers the name Darius but knows better than to ask.

“Then, g’night, Therion,” he says instead, and is met again with silence.

\--

When Alfyn wakes, dawn is peering shyly through the window, and Therion is sitting up on his pallet, working his bonds against a corner of the bed frame.

“Hey, now, none of that,” Alfyn says with a yawn, and Therion jumps.

“Oh,” he says flatly, “you’re awake.”

“Sure am. Need something?”

Therion levels him with an ugly look.

“Need to head to the latrine?”

“Are you going to hold my hand while I go?”

Alfyn chuckles. “Naw. I came up with a better idea. I reckon you’ll like it, too.”

“Really.”

“Yup!”

Alfyn stretches his sore shoulders as he climbs out of bed, then pads on bare feet over the cool floorboards to the table. He picks up the red orb—the dragonstone—and flashes it in Therion’s direction.

“I’ll untie you,” he says, “but this stays with me. You’ll have it back once I can prove you ain’t lying to me about working for that noble lady.”

Therion looks from the stone to his face and then back again as if gauging his truthfulness. “Fine,” he says. “Untie me.”

Alfyn slips the stone into his satchel. He isn’t sure of this gamble. If Therion isn’t lying, then he won’t leave without the dragonstone. If he is, then Alfyn is banking entirely on the stone being too valuable for him to part with. But even then, just what exactly is Therion willing to do to regain his freedom? Take a hostage? Kill a guard? Kill _him_? Alfyn can’t be certain he won’t be made a fool of again in a disastrous way.

Yet despite his hesitancy, he kneels by the bed and works at undoing the cord binding Therion’s hands. When he pulls away with it, Therion rubs his wrists as if out of habit but doesn’t jump up to flee or fight.

And as it turns out, Alfyn _does_ have to hold his hand to the latrine, in a manner of speaking. Therion is weak, perhaps weaker than he himself anticipated if his frustrated grunts are any indicator, so Alfyn supports him over his shoulder and walks him down the hall to the latrine.

“Don’t say a word,” Therion growls, wincing.

“Ain’t nothing to be ashamed of,” Alfyn says, shrugging his unoccupied shoulder.

When they return to the room, he helps him back into bed. Therion looks like he’s in pain, but he doesn’t once mention it. Alfyn takes the initiative to mix up a tincture for him.

“What is this?” Therion demands, side-eyeing it.

“It’ll help with the pain.”

“No thanks.” He tries to push it back into Alfyn’s hands.

“It’s not poison,” Alfyn says bluntly.

“Really. And how do I know you’re not lying?”

Alfyn’s almost hurt by the accusation but reminds himself that Therion has probably never had the luxury of trust. “If I wanted to poison you, I coulda done it in your stew or water,” he points out. “And besides, why would I go through all this trouble to keep you alive just to turn around and kill you, huh?”

“You want the dragonstone,” Therion says simply.

Alfyn starts. “’Course I don’t! Didn’t I tell you before that I had no use for pretty stones? This ain’t about the money, either,” he adds hotly. “I never charge for my services when my patients don’t got the leaves for it. Even when I do, I only accept enough to keep food in my stomach.”

“That’s a lie if I ever heard one.”

Alfyn shakes his head. “If I really wanted that stone, I’da made off with it by now, don’t you think? There’d be nothing keeping me here tending to you.” He proffers the tincture again. “Swear on my ma’s grave, Therion. I want to help.”

Therion balls his hands into fists on his knees, teeth clenched.

“Therion—”

“ _Don’t_. Don’t say my name like we’re _friends_. Like you _care_.”

“I _do_ care!” Alfyn cries, surprising himself with his own vehemence.

“Why?” Therion asks. “ _Why_ do you care? You don’t even know me—why _should_ you care?”

“Because,” Alfyn says, “you’re my patient. And as to how _that_ happened, well... I saw someone in a bind, and I helped him out. Simple as that.”

For a long while, Therion is quiet.

“Simple, huh?” he says at last. And then, miraculously, he accepts the tincture, eyeing it cautiously for a moment longer before downing it in a single gulp.

“That’s the way,” Alfyn says softly.

He finds himself some busywork to do, sneaking glimpses at Therion at intervals, relaxing a little when the pain gradually loosens its grip on his features and his eyelids flutter shut.

“You… really do know your stuff,” Therion mutters when Alfyn thinks he’s asleep. He sounds impressed if not, admittedly, perhaps too drowsy to be of entirely clear mind. Still, Alfyn rubs the back of his neck, blushing.

“Shucks,” he says.

Therion keeps to his bed for the remainder of the day, sleeping intermittently, waking only to eat and, later, to have his bandages changed and his wounds cleaned.

“You sure got a lot of scars here,” Alfyn says without thinking when he undoes the bindings.

Therion turns his head to the side, gazing out the window at the setting sun with a forlorn sort of detachment. “If you say so.”

Alfyn quickly changes the subject.

When night falls and they prepare to sleep, Alfyn approaches with the cord. “I’m sorry. I—I gotta sleep, too.”

“You saw me,” Therion says. “I’m not exactly going anywhere any time soon.”

“I’m real sorry,” Alfyn says again. As before, it’s easy to overpower the smaller, weaker Therion, and he hates himself for it.

\--

The next day, Therion demands to be let outside, and Alfyn, conceding that a bit of fresh air will do him good, reluctantly acquiesces. Therion still needs his help walking, which he’s only too tickled to accommodate.

“Baby steps, now,” he says, holding to his left arm to steady him.

“Shut up,” Therion grumbles without any real malice. Alfyn has to turn his head to hide his grin.

Maybe he’s pushing himself, but Therion seems to get steadier with each step he takes, only stopping a few times to grip his stomach and catch his breath. They walk the market in lower Bolderfall, and Therion seems particularly interested in the rickety staircases leading up the cliff side.

“You couldn’t even spare the leaves to lodge at the inn up the hill?” he asks. “Maybe you weren’t lying about refusing payment after all.”

Alfyn isn’t sure whether to be amused or self-conscious. He settles on the former with a weak laugh. “I told you, didn’t I? It ain’t about the leaves. A stranger saved me back when I needed it most. Now I want to do the same.”

“You’re too soft,” Therion says, but he sounds more appreciative than he does derisive, perhaps unbeknownst to him.

They return to the tavern before noon, Alfyn laden with fresh vegetables in defiance of Therion’s judgment of his finances. Therion himself appears content to sit up on his bed, so Alfyn sets him to peeling potatoes for their lunch. The mood is light, and maybe that’s what gives Alfyn the courage to ask what’s been on his mind since he first found the thief.

“So,” he says while he lays sliced vegetables on a saucepan to simmer, “that band on your arm—”

“Proof of my ‘ _contract_ ’ with House Ravus,” Therion bites out, his hand nearly slipping with the knife; Alfyn wonders suddenly if it was a good idea to give it to him. “The _kind_ lady of the household will have it removed once I recover the dragonstones that were stolen from her.”

“Hold on just a minute!” Alfyn cries. “You telling me you’re a thief stealing back from other thieves?”

“It isn’t my preferred job,” Therion says moodily.

Alfyn, though, lets out a hearty chuckle. “Well, looks like you ain’t such a bad guy after all!”

He says it then, as Therion flushes and orders him to keep his mouth shut, because he wants, more anything, for it to be true.

\--

Alfyn wakes before dawn on the morrow and knows immediately that something isn’t right. There’s no sound of breathing beside his, no creak of a bed to indicate the presence of another. He sits up and fumbles to light a candle.

Therion’s bed is empty. There’s a heap of bloodstained cord on the pillow. Alfyn leaps out of bed, rifles through his satchel. He knows even before confirming it that the dragonstone is gone.

He throws on his clothes and dashes out the door, taking the steps two at a time on his way out the tavern. His satchel slams rhythmically against his side.

“ _Damn_ ,” he hisses as he bolts into the chill of predawn. “Where did you go?”

Therion’s wounds have far from healed. He won’t be able to go far. At least, Alfyn tells himself he won’t. But this situation is near identical to what happened with Miguel, who managed to put up a hell of a fight despite the graveness of his injuries.

And yet Alfyn realizes it isn’t what Therion might do that worries but Therion himself.

He finds him in the middle district, collapsed on the steps leading up to the Ravus manor. He’s got his arm coiled over his stomach, and it’s spotted with fresh blood.

“What the hells are you doing?” Alfyn cries before he can stop himself, and Therion jerks his head around.

“Damn,” he says, laughing without a trace of humor. “And here I was thinking I finally lost you.”

“What’s the matter with you?” Alfyn demands. “Your wounds have reopened—you’re gonna bleed out! Don’t”—he stops, throat hitching—”don’t you trust me?”

Therion’s face darkens. “‘Trust’,” he repeats, almost incredulously. “You think a thief can trust anybody?”

“Anybody can trust—”

“Hmph. I’ll bet you’ve been taken advantage of more times than you’ll ever know.”

Alfyn feels his blood run cold. “That ain’t—”

“All those people who ‘couldn’t afford’ to pay your fees? Do you really think not one of them had selfish reasons for it?”

“There are good and honest people—”

“For your own sake,” Therion says, raising his voice, “you should take advantage of others before they take advantage of you. Otherwise, you’ll just get hurt. Used and tossed out like trash once you’ve served your purpose.”

Alfyn grits his teeth. “Now listen here, you cocky bastard! Yeah, maybe I will get hurt! Fact is, I already have been! And I reckon it won’t be the last time, either! But I ain’t gonna throw the baby out with the bathwater and stop trusting folks just ’cause there’s a chance I might get hurt! And—and you shouldn’t, either!”

Therion opens his mouth to argue, but Alfyn doesn’t give him the chance to speak. “Look, I don’t know what happened to you to make you so scared of trusting others. But I’ll be _damned_ if I let my patient die ’cause he’s too stubborn to take help when he needs it! So get outta my way”—he bears down on Therion, thrusting away his arm and throwing up his mantle and undershirt—“and let me heal you!”

Therion, apparently at a loss for words, submits to Alfyn’s touches, allowing him to wrap his wounds afresh.

“There,” Alfyn says, tying off the last bandage. “That should hold you for now.” He hesitates, and then adds, “If you’re so hellsbent on getting that chain off your arm, then let me help you.”

Before Therion can object, Alfyn stands with him and hoists him up onto his shoulders.

“Wait—what are you—?”

“Shush now. Save your energy for the lady.”

“The… lady?”

“Yeah. You said Ravus Manor, right? Then hold on tight.”

Alfyn starts up the stairs, and Therion clings to his back for dear life.

“H-hey! What the hells are you—this is humiliating!”

“Shouldn’t’ve run off with those wounds, then. Now you’re stuck with me, your new fellow traveler.”

It doesn’t sound like such a bad plan, saying it aloud.

Therion slumps his chin over his shoulder. “I work alone,” he says, halfheartedly.

“Not today, you don’t,” Alfyn returns. “Today, you’re accepting a little bit of help.”

He expects Therion to argue that, maybe even try to squirm off his shoulders. He’s surprised by the almost contented resignation he gets in response.

“If you say so.”


End file.
